Sleep
by roominthecastle
Summary: After all these years, all those numbers, he can finally rest.
1. Chapter 1

**disclaimer:** not mine

* * *

**chapter one**

"May I have this dance?" he asks, raising to his feet and offering his hand. "Honey," he adds a bit hesitantly. Through his ear piece he can hear John discreetly clear his throat to stifle a laugh.

But it's not discreet enough.

_You'll be fine_,_ Harold,_ he told him earlier this evening. After all, it's a charity ball with some of New York City's wealthiest and most sophisticated in attendance. He should fit in - in theory at least -, and he agreed to go. In retrospect, he should have thought it through. _But what's a billionaire without a trophy girlfriend almost half his age? _John mused and his gaze landed on Shaw. According to her, the answer to that particular riddle was: _alive._ And given her death glare, Harold was inclined to side with her, but John was right: showing up alone could have drawn unwanted attention. Ms. Shaw, however, didn't hesitate to voice her misgivings. _Some people belong in the van, _she remarked at some point, then looked straight at Harold. He isn't sure what she meant by that but he suspects it has something to do with her limited faith in his capabilities out in the field.

He can't entirely blame her for it but none of them could come up with a better plan and time was - and still is - of the essence. Now he's here, asking his "trophy girlfriend almost half his age" for a dance, so they can keep a closer eye on their latest number. Shaw anchored herself down near a lavish platter packed with smoked salmon, onion slices, tomato, and kalamata olives, and she appears rather hesitant to leave it behind.

She throws him a look that's halfway between surprise and doubt. "It's a slow song," he tries to reassure her in case she also has doubts about his competence as a dance partner.

She glances at the other guests seated at the table, then back up at him. "Of course, dear," she squeezes it out with a fake smile and takes his hand.

He escorts her to the dance floor, trying to get as close to their latest number as possible. They move through the glittering crowd, eyes searching. She snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter - who just happens to be Reese -, downs it in one gulp, then casually leaves the empty glass on a table.

Harold gives her a sideways glance. "Are you enjoying the party, Ms. Shaw?_"_

"I am trying to."

"How's our good doctor doing?" Reese asks, trying to divert their attention back to the mission as he continues to scan the ballroom for any sign of trouble.

Dr. Allen Murphy, one of the city's top plastic surgeons, is dancing with his wife and seems blissfully ignorant of the fact that he might be targeted. The Machine produced his number two days ago but he hasn't shown any suspicious behavior neither since, nor before - as far as they can tell. It is much more likely that something is going to happen to him, and this ball seemed like a good setting for it.

"So far so good," Shaw answers, glancing around. "This room seems to be filled with his handiwork and they all look quite pleased," she remarks. "I don't think our guy's among them."

They stop near the couple and Harold turns to face her. They stare at each other for a short moment. "While I'm aware that you're not comfortable with it, for our cover's sake I'm going to ask you to let me lead."

"For our cover's sake?" she repeats, arching an eyebrow.

He blinks. "Yes. ... Please."

She briefly mulls it over. "Alright, Harold," she says, stepping closer and draping her hand over his shoulder. "I'll leave you confident in your maleness tonight... but only because you said 'please'."

He gently places his hand on her waist. "Thank you."

They begin to sway to the music and for a while neither of them speaks. They slowly turn but their movements are rather tense. They keep their eyes off each other, surveying the room. One thing quickly becomes apparent: they stick out like a sore thumb among the other couples.

Her hand suddenly slips from his and slides up around his neck. He looks at her, his gaze slightly alarmed and questioning.

She leans in. Her lips are inches from his ear. "For our cover's sake, Harold," she says and he can hear that small, menacing smile in her voice.

But she has a point. His hand goes around her waist, cautiously drawing her into a full embrace. This new position takes a little getting used to. It's been a while since he experienced such intimacy - even if it's just for show -, and after he manages to relax a little, her close proximity starts to become increasingly and disturbingly pleasant. He swallows dry, then clears his throat. "Do you see anything, Mr. Reese?" he asks, talking into her ear piece.

He sees them. From a distance, they do look like a couple whispering sweet nothings into each other's ear. "I'll let you know when I do, Finch," John replies with a smile.

Then she starts fiddling with the hair at his nape. She's probably bored. She might not even be aware of what her fingers are doing but he can't seem to focus on anything else. Her touch sends a wave of pleasant chills through his body and his eyes close for a brief second. Soon he finds that he can't take it anymore. Cover or no cover, he starts to pull away and that's when he sees something from the corner of his eye.

A glare.

Given off by a scope attached to a sniper rifle.

"Mr. Reese. In the balcony," he calls out but there's no time.

It's already too late.

He looks at Shaw. She can see fear creeping into his eyes as he suddenly turns them around on the spot.

A single shot rings through the room.

The music stops, and there's a long moment of absolute stillness before the panic sets in.

His ears are ringing and he feels his left shoulder burn.

They look at each other. His eyes shift to her upper arm. It's bleeding slightly but it's not serious. The bullet just grazed her skin.

Her gaze meets his again.

His suit jacket feels warm and wet under her fingertips and there's a frayed hole in it. "Harold..."

"I'm..." His voice falters.

Suddenly, he feels cold and light-headed. His arm goes numb. His knees buckle and he staggers towards her. She tries to hold him up but they both crumple to the floor.

More shots are fired. He hears shouting and screaming but they sound increasingly muffled and distant - as if he were submerged in cold water. His eyes drift shut. He feels being pulled upwards, then he hears his name. He opens his eyes and sees Dr. Murphy. He's kneeling by his side, talking, phone pressed to his ear. He didn't run. "Shaw..." he tries but he can't say more. "I'm here." His eyes find her. She's upside down now. Her hair has come undone. He prefers it that way but he will never tell her that. He can't see Reese but he must be near, too. He always is. He can smell his aftershave. He can hear his voice and it calms him. Somebody takes his hand briefly. People are still screaming somewhere far away - it's a dull noise in the back of his mind. There's sounds of buttons popping and fabric being torn. A giant Regency style chandelier hangs from the ceiling right above him. He watches the light playing on its glass beads but his eyelids start to feel so heavy. And then there's darkness. It's soft, peaceful, light and quiet.

After all these years, all those numbers, he can finally rest.

But somebody slaps him - hard. He sucks in air and his eyes flutter open again. He squints. Everything is bright and blurry and heavy and painful again. "No sleeping on the job, Harold," Shaw tells him, her voice firm. "Keep breathing." His confused gaze locks on her again. Her eyes are fixed on the task at hand - bandaging his shoulder as fast as possible -, but she meets his gaze briefly. "Don't you dare fall asleep," she warns him. She looks angry. He hopes he has a chance to tell her that he's grateful for that sharp anger. He should have told her sooner. Now he's cold and so incredibly thirsty. She and the doctor are still trying to control the bleeding. Her right cheek is smeared with blood. Everything is. "You hear me?" He tries to nod.

"He's in shock," Dr. Murphy says, then his eyes meet Harold's. "The ambulance is on its way. You'll be fine, Harold," he promises. He is a good liar. Murphy pulls the phone he used to call for help out of his pocket, puts it on the floor, then bundles up the jacket and uses it to keep pressure on Finch's shoulder.

_You'll be fine, Harold. _The words echo in his head. That's what John had said before the shooting started. Before all the blood and pain. _You'll be fine, Harold. _He looks at the doctor's phone on the floor. It's white with messy red fingerprints. He glances back at Shaw. _Some people belong in the van. _She was right. "Phone..." he tries to tell her but his voice cracks. His mouth is so dry. She leans closer. "What?" He tries to repeat it. He can't. There's so much pain. It burns him, pierces him, shakes him. It's eating him alive and he just wants to go where it can't follow, where it cannot reach him anymore.

He just wants to sleep.

Just a little bit.

"Harold!"

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**disclaimer:** not mine

* * *

a/n

**zenbon zakura**: no worries, I'm not _THAT_ cruel. ;)  
**poi922**: thanks so much! Hope you like the next one, too. :)  
**Guest #1**: thank you! And now you have to wait no more.  
**lionsassy:** thank you! I typed as fast as I could. :)  
**Alia:** thanks a million. Hope you like this one, too.  
**Guest #2**: thank you! The show seems to keep poor Harold so touch-starved. I had to do something about that. ;)  
**Guest #3**: thanks so much. I love writing these three. I didn't think I'd enjoy it this much, tbh. Now I'm like an addict. So glad you enjoy reading it and I hope you like what comes next. :)  
**KSPretenderFan**: thanks heaps for reading and the encouragement! I hope you enjoy the continuation as well.  
**KESwriter:** thank you very much! The "getting shot" part is roughly 60% research and 40% pure imagination, so I'm very, very happy you liked it.

* * *

**chapter two**

His eyes slowly open.

He stares at the ceiling.

The chandelier is gone.

The screaming has stopped, too. It's been replaced by the steady beeping of a cardiac monitor and faint traffic noises.

He awoke several times today but this time he can at least think somewhat clearly.

He tries moving his fingers and toes. It hurts, his muscles and joints protest, but everything seems to function to the same extent as it did before.

His throat feels scratchy. He tries to swallow but ends up coughing instead. Sharp pain jabs through him like a jagged knife.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a dark shape moves towards him.

"Drink," John says, holding a straw to Harold's mouth.

He obeys and takes a sip. It goes down with a frown but he is very thirsty, so he drinks some more. The taste doesn't improve but his coughing stops. "This is the most horrible tea I've ever had," Harold remarks, his voice weak and hoarse.

A small grin tugs at John's lips. "I think it's ice water," he says, putting down the cup.

"Exactly," Harold remarks, still a little hazy.

John fixes him with a concerned look."How are you feeling?"

He shifts on the bed and the smoldering pain in his shoulder flares up mercilessly. "Never better."

His left arm is in a sling but his sarcasm seems intact.

Reese nods with a small smile. "You were very lucky, Harold. Shaw used half of her evening gown to bandage you up. The bullet broke your collar bone. Damaged an artery. You lost a lot of blood."

_You almost died. _The unsaid sentence hangs in the air between them for a long moment.

"How's Dr. Murphy?" Harold asks, abruptly changing the subject.

"He's still alive. Thanks to you we found his second cell phone. Shaw threatened to fillet him with it if he didn't come clean."

Despite himself, Harold smiles at that. "It was effective, I imagine."

"Very. Turns out he had some… unfinished business with a guy named Alexei Koshkin, member of the local branch of the Russian mob."

"You mean the sniper in the balcony was a gift from an unhappy patient?"

John hesitates a bit. "From the unhappy husband of an unhappy patient."

Harold is silent for a long moment, his brain digesting the answer. "So he wanted the doctor dead for what? A face lift gone wrong?"

"Um… think slightly lower."

Harold stares at him. "I don't think I can."

His disbelieve is laced with dull anger. He almost died because of a couple of breast implants. It's insane, infuriating, and ridiculous. He sighs.

John smiles with sympathy. He moves to the bedside cabinet, glances around, then opens its door. "Lionel smuggled in some quality firewater," he says, showing Harold the bottle of Scotch. "We crack it open when you feel better." Harold nods appreciatively. "Carter was here, too. She brought you some reading material," John says, tapping the books piled on top of the cabinet. Harold looks at them, squinting, trying to decipher their titles. "Oh and I picked up a new pair of glasses for you. The old one got a bit… damaged," he says, placing the new spectacles next to the books.

"Thank you, John."

He nods and they regard each other silently.

There is something Reese isn't saying and something Harold isn't asking. Reese breaks first. "What were you thinking?" he asks, his voice low and quiet, his expression pained. He's not berating him. He's still plagued by residual fear and worry.

Harold holds his gaze for a brief moment, then his eyes blink away. "I guess I wasn't thinking," he says simply.

John doesn't believe him but he doesn't want to push him. For now.

"Where's Ms. Shaw?" Harold asks, glancing back at him, his voice forced casual.

"You know her. She's not big on staying still. She looked in on you but you were still unconscious."

Harold just nods.

A nurse gently knocks on the door frame, discreetly letting them know the visiting time is over.

"Everything is being taken care of, Harold, so try to get some rest," John says.

"I'll try," Harold promises. He watches John leave, then his eyes shift to the books.

His mind is a swirling mess.

His body is throbbing with pain.

His head drops back on the pillow and he drifts to sleep.

* * *

He's awoken by the unsettling sensation of being watched. He opens his eyes. There's a fuzzy dark shape at the foot of his bed but it's too small to be John. He narrows his eyes. "Ms. Shaw…?"

"Morning, Harold," she greets him, then places a cup on the overbed table.

She doesn't say more. She doesn't move closer. She watches his broken form from a safe distance and doesn't let loose of the emotion that's been boiling underneath the cool and collected exterior. Not here. Not in front of him. Visiting was so much easier when he was unconscious but he owes her an explanation and it better be a good one.

He shifts.

The cardiac monitor's beeping is quickening slightly.

"Are you in pain?" she asks.

"I'm always in pain, Ms. Shaw," he says, his voice matter of fact, and he props himself up in a sitting position. "Fortunately, today I have a very potent opiate at my disposal."

A rare, tiny smile plays at the corner of her mouth. Of course he can't say "morphine drip" - not even when he's hooked to one.

He puts on his glasses. "What happened to your hand?" he asks, looking at her raw knuckles.

Her fingers curl into a fist. "I had a little chat with our sniper friend from the party," she replies. "And it got a little… animated."

He stares at her. "Is he—"

"Dead?"

He remains silent.

"No," she says after a long moment. _He should be, though._ She wanted him to be but she knew Harold wouldn't, that he would even feel responsible somehow, so she denied herself the satisfaction of ending the guy.

She tilts her head, her jaw sets. "Do you wanna die, Harold?"

The abrupt, blunt question doesn't seem to faze him and he holds her gaze. "I don't want anyone to die," he answers.

"So naturally, you waltzed in front of a high velocity bullet."

"I took a calculated risk," he says.

Now he is really starting to anger her.

Her gaze hardens. "Yes, I'm sure you did a lot of calculating in those 2 seconds between spotting the shooter and turning yourself into a human shield."

Heavy silence ensues.

"Someone was going to get shot," Harold explains. She opens her mouth to respond but he cuts her off. "I know that's your area of expertise but…" he trails off and hesitates. "It had to be me."

"It had to be you," she echoes him, incredulous.

"I had something to my advantage you didn't."

She raises eyebrows at that. "What?"

"You, Ms. Shaw," he answers. "You were right. Some people belong in the van, and if you had gotten injured like this, I couldn't have done anything to save you."

"I never asked you to be my hero, Finch."

"I didn't try to be your hero, Ms. Shaw," he says. "But I hoped you'd be mine."

She stares at him in silence, trying not to be so affected by what he just said, but his words manage to stir a distant, dormant part of her.

She's confused. Impressed. Moved. Ambushed by his confession.

She averts her gaze and looks at the cup she brought with herself. She can't look back at him, not just yet. "I guess I was wrong about you, Harold," she says, eyes cast down, her fingers picking at the lid of the cup. "It's very easy to underestimate you."

When she finally looks back up, she finds his blue eyes fixed on her. "And that's exactly what you want, am I right?" He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. His silence is confirmation enough. "But if you pull a stunt like this again, I'm gonna shoot you myself," she says. It's a threat born out of begrudging affection, and he knows it. He smiles at her. _The shameless bastard._

"Understood," he says with a small nod, then his attention shifts to the cup. "What's that?"

Wordlessly, she rolls the overbed table closer. "Sencha green tea with one sugar." He glances up with a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Not exactly your home address," she says, "but it's a start, right?"

He takes off the lid and breathes in the aroma of his favorite beverage. He already feels much better. "It's an excellent start, Ms. Shaw," he says, then takes a hearty sip.

_the end_


End file.
